13,186. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,082

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,082

(...that was that...

Not always do all the t's get

crossed nor i's dotted. At least

by old, handwriting standards

anyway. That's what I always

liked, but it's mostly gone now.

Many of the opportunities and

occasions for errors and mistake

that we all used to live with are

gone now too. Everything being in

fixed automation  -  more or less  -  

and accepted that way by everyone,

the world has turned boring. You

can't even go the a bank now and

hope that maybe some silly teller

will screw up and throw you that

extra twenty. Now the flash-count

machine counts and dispenses, and

all's right with the world. I guess

we all sleep better at night? I guess.

-

I used to like that old car-loan ad

that used to run, showing an 'Anycar.'

It was like a collection of fenders and

parts from a bunch of different cars,

all hacked together, and making a

car of its own. The idea was to show

how that particular bank was liberal

in its auto-loan policies and would

(almost) allow for any car-loan. I

always wanted an 'Anycar'  -  just

for that haphazard reason alone. It's

the same as when I'd see NYC guys,

the machinists and millers and all, in
their little machine shops and small

workplaces out along the westside

streets in the 'teens and 20's : Far

west 19th, west 25th, and the rest.

Below the area ran rail-yards, and,

before Javits Center and the rest,

and now Hudson Yards, gobbled it 

all up, it was the real hot-spot for

the workingman pulse of old, and

industrial, NYC  -  when stuff was

actually made, and products produced,

by men who were usually, silent,

powerful, and rude, all at the same

time. Many bore the results of their

'mistakes'  -  bandaged thumbs, 

missing fingers, humped shoulders.

The world, in and of itself  -  that old

world  -  was an Anycar of its own

happening. These guys knew it, but

stayed sullenly to their works. The

missing parts had been optioned off.

I always remembered my father's

story to me, when I was about 9,

when he sliced off his thumb on a

band saw at work. Upholstery,

furniture, frames, and and that. The

story was, he bent down, picked up

his sawed-off thumb portion, stuck

it back onto the thumb, and bandaged

it all together  -  until others intervened

and took him to an emergency room.
He came home that one day with a
huge, monstruous-looking white
gauze thing, over his wrist and
thumb area; smiling. 

-

But  -  no shock, no fainting or wailing.

Just that weird kind of 'stick-to-it-iveness'

that really makes little sense, by today's

world and standards. Of course, that can

be argued all day, and can also be called

'stupidity.' Who's to say? From that point

on I can only ever recall my Father with a

rounded stump for a thumb. Pretty poor
for any hitch-hiking, I'd figure. Like water,

which eventually evaporates out of, say, 

a salsa dip, leaving only the thickened

paste of the tomato essence behind, stuck

to the inside lid, (yes, you can tell I've

opened any number of old, refrigerated

foods in my day), the premise is still

there  -  finger, work, awareness   -  but

all the sweetness is long gone. We're left

with the mere stump of memory., and

just go on. 

-

I never knew what to make of any 

of this except watching. I absorbed 

everything. There were still, here and

there, in 1967, stovepipe hat guys; the

sorts of old, jumbly gents I'd see, all

nameless and aimless too, galumping

around in a half-stoop, or a crouch,

with long coats on and a tall hat. They

slowly withered and died off, an in 

another 5 years, it seemed, there were

none left. I always figured, if they

were 80, say, in 1967, that were from

50 years back, when they were 30,

which would have made them circa

1910-1915. Give or take. That was

pretty fascinating to me. Someone born

in the late 1880's. Quite amazing to see.

I always wanted to know more, about 

them of them, their world of memories 

and intentions. I never did though,

because in the 1960's, late, people

weren't yet like that  -  glib and frothy

as they are today. They stayed quiet

and within themselves, these old-timers,

nursing a wound or continually putting

back on that loose bandage covering

their raw and horrid wound. What was

it, I always wondered. I asked my own

grandmother, (b. 1900)but she never 

knew. WWI? Crimea? WWII? The

endless stories of the Depression (she

had those). Whatever it was, and whoever

had cared, were no longer around, and

that was pretty much that.